Today is one of those days. You know the kind - where you have to get five million things done but just want to go on watching and rambling about spider webs.
I don't particularly like spider webs, actually, but I do enjoy the snow that is trickling from the white sky today. I somehow have a split vision in my mind of Christmas - half of me thinks of the traditional white Christmas (which is what I'm having here in my homestate). The other half sees instead of snow, sand, instead of pines, palms, and instead of a warm home a cold rock wall. And then I shudder and thank God.
Christmas has always been my favorite time of year. Starting in November, I eagerly anticipate its arrival. But it's been a unique Christmas.
I think I've grown up a lot in the last year. I think I'm beginning to perceive more like an adult and less like a child. What does this all have to do with Christmas? I don't really know. Maybe just my perception. I remember my thoughts last year on Christmas. This year, they have clarified, and at the same time, grown more ambiguous.
I've been thinking a lot about joy. I love joy. I think it is one of the most important qualities to be possessed. I've also been thinking a lot about pain. This is going to sound cliche, but I really think pain and joy go hand in hand - true joy, that is. I think joy is being able to see past the darkness and embrace the light, celebrate it.
A lot of people right now are in the midst of some very black darkness. They are surrounded by death, disease, despair, depression, brokenness, strife, malice. The dawn seems far away, doesn't it?
But it's not. In fact, light has already come. Many years ago, a light entered the world, and it's been trying to get him out of it ever since. But much as they try, the light can not be quenched. It hungers, it thirsts, for the inevitable - that one day, the dawn will come, all darkness will flee, and we will be standing in the sun.
I think when that happens, we'll look all around us and see the garish colors of past attractions, the decay and decadence all around us. But it will pale in comparison, it will fade away in the greatness of the light, that bright light.
So I have hope this Christmas, because I know that the darkest part of night is right before the sun rises. I have great peace because I know that, very, very soon, I will dance in the dawn. And I have much joy because this is a celebration of love! pure love, and great love, and love at first sight. Did you ever think about that? I hadn't. I know God loved me at first sight... before that! He loved me before there was sight.
For lo! the days are hastening on,
By prophets seen of old,
When with the ever-circling years
Shall come the time foretold,
When the new heaven and earth shall own
The Prince of Peace, their King,
And the whole world send back the song
Which now the angels sing.
Merry Christmas, everyone. May Christ's glad tidings of great joy, his love which embraces the world, his hope which waits just behind the curtain, and his peace which passes all understanding bring you closer to him this Christmas.
What sort of normal person is expected to write an academic essay in 500 words or less on US History II? Just thought I'd make note of that...
Okay, for real, here's a poem I wrote and decided I'd post, since I've been posting disgracefully infrequently.
How very curious, my dear,
How very
I wonder what the trees said that morning
I thought I heard the stars sing aloud
Maybe for joy
Maybe
How very lovely, my dear,
How very
I wonder why the angels sing so quietly
I thought I could hear them
Maybe far away, softly
Maybe
How very thoughtful, my dear,
How very
I wonder why the Christchild comes
I thought I saw him, though he is gone
Maybe here, maybe there
Maybe
How very silent, my dear,
How very
I wonder why the songs are yet here
I thought this darkly silence was unbroken
Maybe there is light even here
Maybe
How very precious, my dear,
How very
I wonder why such a good thing has come
I thought all we were is darkness, fire and sand
Maybe there is more worth to us than that
Maybe
How very irresistible, my dear,
How very
I wonder why I am so drawn to such a small thing
I thought I could run from something so finite
Maybe there is infinity in this child, love
Maybe
Long overdue, but nonetheless, here they are... the odes to the ONLY people to comment on my amazing St. Francis quote.
Ode to Aunty
There once was a lady named Aunty
(well, actually it was Shirin.)
She was the greatest of people -
The nicest that you've ever seen.
She had hair like a superhero
Mrs. Incredible, true
And she knits fantastic creations
In colors of very bright hue.
But the reason I love my Aunty
Is not for her physical face
But the glorious strenght of her character
That helps me run this race.
Ode to Sophie
Sophie is my opposite
In almost every way
She's tall and blond and gorgeous
And seems to know what to say.
And though we're very different,
I'm happy that I can say
That we're still (happ'ly) friends
In simply every way.
So... my odes are lame-duck. I said they would be 'creative'. I didn't specify how. I really need to work on my rhyming poetry. I like sestinas so much better. Am I rambling? Maybe I should sign off for now. I hope the next post will be my thoughts on St. Francis and how amazing he is. Seriously, I wish I knew him. In pursuit of glory, Catey
"Alone" by Edgar Allan Poe
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were - I have not seen
As others saw - I could not bring
My passions from a common spring -
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow - I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone -
And all I lov'd - I lov'd alone -
Then - in my childhood - in the dawn
Of a most stormy life - was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still -
From the torrent, or the fountain -
From the red cliff of the mountain -
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold -
From the lightning of the sky
As it pass'd me flying by -
From the thunder, and the storm-
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view -
I am sometimes moved to tears by this poem. I am analyzing poetry for my college and writers guild studies and though I have only just read this poem for this assignment, I am continually touched by the loneliness Mr. Poe felt. How sad to perish alone without ever feeling the love he desperately wanted.
This is exactly why I want to be a great communicator. Because I don't want to be alone, but draw my passions from a common spring. But more than that, because I don't want others to call into an abyss and hear only the echo of their own voice. I want to be a part of that still small voice that whispers, "I know you. I made you." It makes me sad to think that some of the most brilliant and wanting minds died out loving alone and only loving what would bring them loneliness, when there was a God who was willing to fill them with love waiting the whole time.
The sad thing is that there are Poes all around us, disguised as ordinary people. I think about how many people I've brushed off, saying they're not worth my time. But the truth of the matter is that the ordinary people are the ones we're called to reach. We often read about Jesus among the lepers or healing the blind, those exotic conditions that capture our imagination, but Jesus was most often among the ordinary, forgotten people who are just as lonely and oppressed as the traditional missionary audiences we think of.
Can you learn to reach out and love like Jesus loved? The answer is, simply, no. But can you learn to surrender to God's calling and love as much as you can, with his help? Absolutely.
2 Peter 1:5a,7-8: But also for this very reason, giving all diligence, add to your... godliness brotherly kindness, and to brotherly kindness, love. If these things are yours and abound, you will be neither barren, nor unfruitful, in the knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ.
I watched the evening program for the CFC conference a few days ago. My mind is still caught up in the many short moments of it, my heart still frantically attached to the words I heard. I watched the speakers, heard the message, and thought, I will never reach that place.
And, at the same time, it's the only place I want to be.
Someone once told me, Why not aim for the moon, because if we fail, won't we hit a star?
I want to hit a star in my communication. I want to be one who, whether or not I lead the perfect escape, manages to somehow touch someone in the process.
And though I may miss the moon, at least I will hit the stars.
I see that it is impossible to be all that I need to be. But, somehow, it's all right, because while I may never reach that place, it is the only place I want to go. And when I only aim for places I know I can go, how will I ever know if I could have gone to a place that I actually wanted to?
If I attempt the impossible, maybe I'll be surprised.
I hope that a few days or a hundred years down this road, I will look up and see that I am at that place I thought I'd never attain. I know that I won't see the road along the way, because where's the faith and adventure in that? When one leaps for the stars, all that they can see is the darkness all around them.
But whether I look up and my feet are on the moon, or I fall onto a star, I know that I will have found the place I want to be. And who dares tell me it is impossible?
I have struggled with a balance between pride and false humility for years. But recently, I had a wake-up call that opened my eyes to embracing my inner ridiculousness, and becoming a person of true humility.
It's called: my family. There is no way to be the oldest of five kids and still have dignity. To show you exactly what I mean:
My family name has a meaning that my dad denies (he hasn't yet embraced his inner ridiculousness). He claims it means "spherical" (my mom says, "corpulent"). My dad says it means, 'wealth'.
It doesn't. I researched it. And that's NOT what it means.
Once upon a time, there was a princess. She lived in a castle far away by the sea, where dragons used to dwell. One day, the princess threw a pebble from her castle window down into the green-blue sea below. "Oh dear!" cried the princess, as ripples deeper than the waves spread in perfect rings from her pebble. "My treasure is lost forever." You see, quite by accident, the princess had cast this pebble which contained the greatest of her treasures into a sea which she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt would tear it apart and leave it empty and hollow. So the princess dove into the sea, and felt in the waters around her the whisper and shout of a thousand hurtful words, all screaming:
"My heart is torn! There is a hole in my heart!"
The princess cried out and held out her hands, and there was darkness in the palm of her hand. She covered her ears, but there was still much screaming rushing in her ears. She shut her eyes, and yet there was still the sight of tears falling from a drooping seaweed. She was afraid, so she rushed up to the surface, screaming:
"My treasure is not worth the pain!"
Just as she reached the sunlight of the world above, she heard the sound of wings on water, of poetry, of an angel's kiss. "Thank you."
Again, "Thank you."
"Thank you.... thank... you....."
"For what?" The princess said. "Who are you?"
"We are the crying ones beneath the water. You left us a gift. We thank you... thank you..."
"What gift? I left you no gift!""The pebble. You gave us a pebble which encased a grain of truth. The truth has melted away the mud which bound us to the sea floor. Do you see what happened to us now?"
The princess looked around. "I do not see you."
"We are no longer the waves of the ocean, tossed by the foul wind. We are creatures of the air now. Your gift is freeing us. We thank you... thank..."
Their voices faded off into the sound of the wind over the water.
The princess looked into the sea. Her treasure meant so much to her... to give it up would spell doom, wouldn't it?
She had let her treasure go, but had it really left her?
Sorry I didn't update in such an outrageously long time (and it truly is outrageous). School. Kills. My. Blog.
Here's a devotional I wrote for RTF:
I got back from a Christian speech and leadership camp in Tennessee just a few short weeks ago. I was exhilarated – and at the same time, discouraged. Looking ahead to the humdrum ways of real, regular high school living sounded remarkably unappealing. After a time of really focusing on God, it didn’t seem fitting that I should shove myself back into the routine of my regular year.
I’ve probably already made it very clear that I’m not all that into change. I’ve had the same haircut for five years, keep a calendar to help me manage my routine, and don’t like to mix up my daily schedule much. So I came up with a brilliant solution to my dilemma: I’d simply replicate my summer and try to stay in the same mental state as during my break.
A great idea, until I realized that it was an impossible goal. Ecclesiastes 3:1 states that there is a season for everything. By pushing my past season into my present season, I was only setting myself up for disappointment.
Here are some tips and tricks to transitioning into the real world that I found helpful:
Accept that change is going to happen. That was my biggest problem – denying that God had something else in mind for this season in my life. When I became excited about the new steps I would be taking, whether those be school-related, family-related, or church-related, I realized that I didn’t have to hold on to the things that were now past me.
Be excited - God’s doing something new! If you like to hold onto the familiar because it worked or you enjoyed it, be encouraged that God pushes you into new and fantastic things. If you’re determined to go along with whatever God has in mind for this new season in your life, you’re sure to be better prepared to do what he calls you to do.
Combine both new and old. If you’re not the kind of person who stays in a rut for long, be sure that you don’t toss out the great experiences you had this summer. Balance looking forward to the new, and remembering and learning from the old.
I hope you all have a great start to your school year!
"Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me!" Psalm 51:10
"So I went down to the potter's house, and there he was working at his wheel. And the vessel he was making of clay was spoiled in th epotter's hand and he reworked it into another vessle, as it seemed good to the potter to do..." -Jeremiah 18:3-4
"then let men kill, which cannot share
Let blood and flesh be mud mire
Scheming imagined, passion willed
Freedom a drug that's bought and sold
Giving to steal and cruel kind
A heart to fear, to doubt a mind
To differ a disease of same
Conform the pinnacle of am."
-E.E. Cummings, my father moved through dooms of love
"But who are you, O man, to answer back to God? Will what is molded say to its molder, 'Why have you made me like this?'" - Romans 9:20
The Hollow Men
I was the darkness swallowed up the sun
I was the plague on Egypt's plain
I was the ice in God's hand
I was the stone that rolled from
I am the Hollow in the stone
You look at my face
My nose - aristocratic, called
My mouth - laughter, heard
My beauty - revealed
My eyes - what heart?
I felt above the pounding of
Rain or hammers or hailstone
Like bones, and I felt simplicity
Drain my ears
Hmmm.
Crack.
I heard above the sound
Of rushing waters
Of crickets in the early morning
Of bells from one thousand churches
Of the Angel of Death
Passing over
Thump. Ump. Thump. Umpthump.
I felt within and above and beyond
A sound that could only mean
One thing:
That thing that makes men's minds
Turn to oatmeal
And makes men's hearts
Turn from stone to sand
So, here is the short version of my camp experience at ICC Speech Leadership Camp. I have this really good insightful post coming, but I thought I'd write a short on camp. Sixteen fun things about Camp: Zero bug bites before the last day. I had this AMAZING bug spray that kept everything away and smelled like a smoothie. I was soooo happy... then I went on a hay ride. Apparently, in Tennessee (where "there's oxygen, so there are bugs.") there are these things called chiggers which are the demonic cousins of mites. They leave their feeding tubes in your skin, so they itch for forever and swell up and scar. I don't itch anymore, but I'm scarred. That was a unique experience. One week in Tennessee. One of the most amazing weeks of my life. Two amazing Moons. I met Mr. Moon for the first time at the conference - wonderful people, those Moons. I also got to see Mrs. Moon. I really like her and am very glad that she's still so involved in our organization. Three hours discussing philosophy with Rebecca. Rebecca was one of the girls in my cabin and we got to be friends during our week at Camp, as we were both also Student Leaders. Rebecca is a genius analyzer and then some. So, one day, we sat in the (air-conditioned) chapel and talked about philosophy for three hours (blog post on that coming soon). She's the only person I know who talks classic literature, philosophy, and knows everything old musical ever. Four speech events. Not bad for my second tournament ever, eh? I competed Impromptu, Interpretation, Platform, and Sales Pitch. Five third-place awards. Seriously. Five third places. How did I manage that? I took 3rd in Impromptu, Interpretation, Sales Pitch, Sweepstakes (not sure how that happened) and Model UN speaker. Six people playing Big Monkey. Phil (very cool intern who used to scare me but gave me a 1st place ballot in Interp) taught six of us how to play this really random, pointless game called Big Monkey... I am sad to say that four out of the six people didn't get this nearly rule-free game. Oh well. Seven guys singing "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" - at Eric's request. Eric (another cool intern, though he didn't scare me) likes to sing. Lots. Even though his voice is, in a word, bad. Once he found out my talent for getting a song stuck in my head for weeks at a time, he made it his goal to sing every song he knows around me. Rick Astley was his favorite (and Phantom of the Opera - talk about awkward.) but The Lion Sleeps Tonight was rather amusing - considering the fact that he gathered most of the guys in the room to sing the backup for him. Eight hours with the same people daily. Since there were only four Student Leaders (I was the odd one out in a lot of ways... vaguely humorous.) we spent all of our four-six classes a day with each other and since there were so few, we got to know each other well. When we did personality typing (we actually had a class on it) we found out that we're all within a few letters of each other. Nine girls in my cabin. Six of us were there for the ride, three were interns. I loved doing devotionals every night with them. Ten showers in the Girl's Bathouse. And everyone in them sang. It was fantastic. Eleven -Minute D.I. (ouch.) Twelve wonderful interns. Hhhhh... I miss them. Thirteen or more states represented. Even a foreign country - Ontario, Canada. His accent was funny. Fourteen pages of notes. I'm a little overeager. Fifteen Model UN Nations. Yipee! Go Model UN! If they'd passed my resolution, we would have won the game... but they didn't. So much fun. A myriad: Of memories, knowledge and friendships.
Coming up next: An insightful post on Hollow Men...
One hen
Two ducks
Three squawking geese
Four limerick oysters
Five corpulent porpoises
Six pairs of Don Alverso's tweezers
Seven thousand Macedonians in full battle array
Eight brass monkeys from the ancient sacred crypse of Egypt
Nine apathetic sympathetic diabetic old men on roller skates with a marked propensity toward procrastination and sloth
Ten lyrical spherical diabolical denizans of the deep who haul stall around the corner of the quo of the quay of the quivery
All at the same time.
(Why? Because I don't have time to write a full post about the amazingness of ICC Camp.
Why that poem? Well, you'll have to stay tuned to read all about it.
Why wait? Because it's too phenomenal to write in short form.
Why so phenomenal? Great people, like the people I love and miss so much I'm referring to them as my Camp Family and who include interns and teens, fantastic memories, like things about cows, flight attendants, and Rick Astley, and lots of fun. Like I said, stay tuned.
-Catey
Who misses her Camp Family)
I never thought I would pen these words, but it is true:
My orthodontist, he, the Devil in Disguise, is back and out for my blood.
As you, my faithful readers, will remember, I have now had my braces off for 183 days (not that I've been counting or anything). And, I have had exactly three occasions to go back into the orthodontist's office since then (and, yes, I have been counting those).
My orthodontist had finally succumbed to the power of prayer. The devil was vanquished, and I was walking in freedom of deliverence. In my exactly three appointments since 183 days ago, I haven't even seen the glint of a fang, horn or tail.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday was my 6 month (a month late) retainer check. Last week, I'd come in and taken impressions again (the lady did not know what she was doing. I had impression goo all over my body when I left the office and my saliva tasted like impression goo- a taste which, by the way, is remarkably similar to that of some kind of exotic poison- for about five days after). I'll pick up the story after my literally twenty-minute wait in the Torture Chair:
Devil in Disguise: So... keeping them clean... wearing them every night... *to Assassin lady* She's a tough one... what do I do to her now?
Assassin lady: *nudge, nudge* Impressions?
DiD: Already did those. Twice.
AL: Ooh! New retainer!
DiD: *evil, Bowler-hat-guy-esque chuckle* Oh yes. *plasters grin on* I'm going to give you a new retainer for you to wear until you die. It's made of frog guts and cement. It will make your teeth hurt like you have braces again, and is so thick and heavy that you won't be able to sleep with your mouth shut. Because of this, you will develop an outrageous sore throat and jaw problems you can't even imagine! Any questions?
Moral of the story: Once they let you out of the Devil's office, don't go back in.
The last time I screened an out-of-state call (Virginia), I found out days late that I had taken 4th in the Patrick Henry College short story contest (my story's on their website - here)
This time, my sister didn't answer a different Virginia call.
I find out today that I took 3rd place in the Home School Legal Defense Association (HSLDA) Poetry contest. It was a Sestina poem (not the one I posted a few months ago) but I'm not sure which one out of the two I wrote took the placing, but I'm really really really excited. It should be up fairly soon on the HSLDA website here. I'll post when I find out that it's been put up.
God bless,
Catey
Who has no luck in screening calls
***EDIT***
My poem is now up on the HSLDA website, and for the first time, I actually feel pretty good about this one. I did not expect this to be the winner (it felt pious when I submitted it, but it's a unique look at the topic.) but I am very very happy nonetheless. You may read it at this link: http://www.hslda.org/Contests/Poetry/2009/2009poems.asp#Catey.
Echoes in ink,
Catey
Who also has no luck in predicting winning pieces
***LAST EDIT, I PROMISE***
Vote on my poll down below my blog name... I'm trying to gather opinions on something, and I'd love for yours to be a part of it!
Echoes in ink,
Catey
Who adds multiple edits to her blog posts
I am sixteen, going on seventeen, I know that I'm naive. Fellows I meet may tell me I'm sweet And willingly, I believe! I am sixteen, going on seventeen, Innocent as a rose. Bachelor dandies, drinkers of brandies, What do I know of those? Totally unprepared am I To face a world of men. Timid and shy and scared am I Of things beyond my kin! I need someone older and wiser Telling me what to do You are seventeen, going on eighteen, I'll depend on you.
My thoughts about Flood the Five conference, which I taught with two of my favorite speakers and an intern from the organization I speak with (in no particular order... kind of like the conference itself)...
- Nylons are evil. I had to wear them all three days of the conference, and I ran them the very first day, and then had to cleverly hide the runs the rest of the week.
- My gift is in the UNDER TWELVE YEARS OLD category. Which is a good thing, because, I was the only one who preferred the Beginning Public Speaking kids.
(Story:
I was running a group of 12-15 twelve & up kids and they all HATED ME. Two of them ran as soon as they realized I was their instructor. Another two spent the entire time trying to tell me that they were older and therefore way cooler than me. I had one defense, though... my twelve-year-old sister Joss with her high-heeled shoe.)
-It is so much fun to do something out of your comfort zone with a bunch of people who are also pushed out of their comfort zones. Seriously. Cowardice loves company, but courage requires it. It was a blast to work with all but one person who had never done anything like this before.
-Giggling is for late at night. Quick story here:
A
friend and I were really, really, really tired after the second day of the conference. We hadn't seen our other friend all day or much in the past three weeks and we'd been running things together all day. We were a disaster waiting to happen. We decided we missed our other friend. We decided we should find something to tease him about.... but we couldn't think of anything. So we wandered around the sanctuary talking about how much we'd missed our friend and how we needed coffee (or tea, in my case.) As we wandered, we noticed that our friend was trying to fold down a table. And struggling. A lot. He was getting very frustrated with it, getting to the point where he was holding it upside down and kicking it.
(Editor's comment: Just to clarify, this friend is absolutely great. He is a genius. Truly. It's scary to talk to him because he's too smart for his own good. He WON Impromptu speaking for our forensics league for the whole country, and placed in Extemp and debate. REALLY smart. Just table-challenged.)
My friend and I glance at each other, and that momentary glance illuminated our thoughts all too clearly. We were thinking:
(insert echoey thought sounds)
He is a genius, but he can't fold tables.
And in a moment of sheer insanity and utter exhaustion, we simultaneously began to shriek. Hysterically. Couldn't stop laughing.
AND IT WASN'T EVEN FUNNY. We were just tired.
This lasted until the table folded and we saw that our friend was glaring at us viciously, which, despite his usually calm and gentlemanly demeanor, was a sure sign that we had three seconds to shut up or he would hit us both. Hard.
We stopped.
-Some kids are hilarious! One of the speech games we did was a group interpretation - where a group of kids act out a story together. My group did Jack and the Beanstalk. But we had really, really random things happen, like:
We double-cast Jack and Jill. Jack was played by Jack and Jack Be Nimble. Jill had her very own stunt double. It was amazing.
Our narrator was Rappin' Red Riding Hood.
Go figure.
- I have the sweetest friends ever.
-One of the cutest things I've ever seen is to watch two generally private people completely brag their little sisters. It was so sweet.
-Stretching yourself is a good thing. It was so neat to be trained by Mrs. Moon, who founded the organization sponsoring the conference, but the real learning and the real experiences took place when I was actually out there, figuring out what works with shy kids or how to focus 13-year-olds. It was in growing past the fact that I either used to or still do have (I can't decide which ) an irrational fear of teenagers. It was in the experience.
Loved it! Hopefully I'll have a brain and then I can write something deep and profound...
Drip. Drip.
I do not understand the water
That falls like a birdsong on my face
You say it cleanses
Then why is the dirt pouring on
Me?
You chose me. You chose this
Dark creaking beast to be my Shelter
In a long storm. I didn’t
Choose it for myself.
Why me? I am not
Good or Beautiful and I did not
Know you then. I hardly know you now.
Unworthy is a good word.
It’s who I am right now in the face of
This Great Flood that threatens me
But somehow, you protect.
How is it you could love a fool like me?
Is this who I am? More than just the
Earth on my face or the water in my hands,
I am made in your image
These eyes are to see destruction and live
These hands to cradle in love like you do
This heart to beat like yours
Is this who I am?
Unworthy is a good word.
But that is not who I am.
(This poem was up on Real Teen Faith earlier this week, but I decided I'd post it here too. I have too much to do to come up with something new with my poor decrepit old brain right now.
Note to self: Do not make the mistake of telling a Type A person that you are Type A and are the only person in the state the week before you're hosting a conference. It doesn't work out well. Sparks of illumination, C.
P.S. The conference mentioned there is the Institute for Cultural Communicators Flood the Five conference. I get to help teach, which is both scary and exciting. It's fantastic - and, if you live in my state (CO) then this is an excellent opportunity (Don't let the fact that I'm teaching scare you away - to counterbalance my inexperience, we'll have some wonderful speakers, including the debate National Champion from a few years ago). Check it out at: http://www.instituteforculturalcommunicators.org/.
Sparks of illumination, C.)
I'm not bored. But if you are, I have the ideal solution for you (or even if you're not, I have a great thing for you to do)! Kylie, Joss, and I are putting on the first ever annual Ignition Challenge, starting today and continuing through the month of June!
The Ignition Challenge, which can be found online at www.ignitionchallenge.wordpress.com , is loosely affiliated with Kids of Faith Online Magazine and is put on and written by the contributors. Our goal for Ignition is to challenge and encourage believers to take their relationships with God deeper this summer.
It's really exciting - with devotionals, stories, humor, and in-depth looks at four aspects of our walk with God posted every day from now till July 1st! We're hoping to reach as many people as possible in the month of June, so consider checking us out! We'd love for you to come visit.
For more information on the challenge, check out our vision statement here. See you there!
Pretty much the title sums it up. I'm around.... sort of. Since I haven't been posting much, I'll give you my life in a nutshell, which can, roughly, be summed up in my life this past week.
Last Friday: I was commandeered into service by a lady who is half my height but twice my gumption. I spent an hour guarding a door for our homeschool graduation.
(Me: Seth! Let me in!
Seth: NO! Go away.
Me, fifteen minutes later: SETH! They're attacking me with pencils!
Seth: NO! You are obsessed! Go away!
Seth's mom: CATEY! Let people in there before they kill you with pencils!)
Saturday: Duo practice. With a guy who hates this kind of speech. Both of our first times. Ever.
(Me: We need to keep the line!
Shane: NO! We need to cut the line!
Me: I'm the interper!
Shane: I'm in charge!)
Sunday: Dad leaves. World ends.
(Me, while frantically trying to figure out how in the world I'm going to get the speech to work without the line Shane cut: Sam! SSSSSHHHH!
Sam: WAAAAH!!!!!!!
Me, while still frantically trying to figure out how in the world I'm going to get the speech to work without the line Shane cut: WAAAAH!)
Monday: We are plunged into madness and chaos of the most devious nature.
(Me: Okay, so Mrs. B will pick us up and take us to Chapter, and there Carli will do her interp, Joss will do her interp, and I'll do my interp with Shane, despite the fact that I have no clue how to live without the line he cut, and then Mom will pick us up, take us to Costco while Joss does VBS practice, then we'll pick up the dog from the vet, go home and have dinner. Anything I forgot?
Mom: Yeah. Sam's running a fever and hasn't stopped crying all day.)
Tuesday: Sam will not stop crying. Oh yeah. And laundry. Lots and lots of laundry.
(Me, while still trying to figure out how to get the speech to work without the line that Shane cut, since we mysteriously didn't get to do it the day before, and foldng a mile-high pile of laundry: When does Daddy get home? Soon?)
Wednesday: Sam is not sick. So why is he such a mess?
(Sam: WAAAAAH!
Me, while still folding the mile-high pile of laundry and trying to figure out how to get the speech to work without the line that Shane cut: WAAAH! Tell me Daddy's getting home soon!
Thursday: Performed speech - in the middle of nowhere while still trying to figure out how to give this speech without the line that Shane cut.
(Me, after driving to this tiny church in the middle of nowhere: Yeah, I'm here to work on a speech.
Kaitlin: Aren't you competing next year?
Me: Yes. But I'm working on one with Shane. It's a duo.
Kaitlin: You are lying to me.
Me: No... seriously
Kaitlin: You have done the impossible.
Me, under my breath: Not quite. Figuring out how to give this speech without the line Shane cut is doing the impossible...)
Today: DADDY'S HOME!!!! And putting the line that Shane cut BACK into my speech!
(Me: I'm right! You may be in charge, but I'm right! And that line is SO going back in the speech!)
Yes, so, essentially, that's been my life. Sound interesting? It was. In retrospect.
And, in addition to all that, I'm up on:
Kids of Faith Online Magazine: the summer issue is up! We have some fabulous stuff in this one, including but not limited to: a brand new contributor (Alyssa!), a review of Do Hard Things (the review was recommended by the Harris brothers, who are the authors of the book!) and (if I do say so myself) the very best installment of Beneath a Dark Sky yet.
Real Teen Faith: my Squire CWG mentor's site. Read my devo about summer training, if you like.
I wanted to hope for a gift
Something set free from a cage with wings
And desperately, I hoped to gain
Something that would free me too
But I could not be freed
Until I could learn to give
And though I hated the inscrutable wind
I tried to scream my whispered warning
To it as I longed for pale sunsets
And words that would give me
Some sort of wish
That would give me hope
But hope is a quality quickly fleeting
And though I loathed the smell
Of thought, I thought
And thought of things
That no mortal should ever think of
No mere man should ever write of
But I did, because the cage demanded
Escape, and escape was of the outside world
And the outside world held disgust
And I wanted to understand that disgust
And find a way to make it beautiful
For it was not wrong to write
About wrong, because for wrong to be
Right must be, for hate to be,
Love must triumph. And I made
It triumph in every thought
And though I loathed the smell of
Blood, I thought of blood and water
And how the sky would pour forth stars
And damage the unsuspecting earth below
And I wondered how long it would be
Before another thinker would enter and
Think the dark and troubled thoughts I thought
But none would come for they feared
That light would never be back.
Except for one, and that was of
Another time, another year, moment
And dimension, and I longed
For another thought, a thought of joy
And a thought that would remove this
Elephant from my chest and
Let my heart beat freely again
It did not come and I drowned.
Darkness is not unlike water and water
Makes one drown when it is all around
And suddenly, light and darkness
Made their solemn dance around me
Like a wedding march, marrying themselves together
I screamed.
Because I was drowned and I
Could not see or breathe…
But it was not the end.
Light and dark are two means
To kill and to birth
And to embrace the light from
The side of the dark
As a great illumination watches
Is to find a joy that cannot be found
To fight an enemy that cannot be killed
To find a way that does not exist
To eat from the hand that made you
To know a God who cannot be known.
I keep writing poetry. Once again, I'm trying to improve my contest entry, and this one isn't even the right form, so I decided to post it. Poetry is a raw art and is a language of thought, best understood when overheard, I've decided.This one was just expression of something I can't understand. But I'm trying. Echoes in ink, C.
No doubt you've heard those words as often as I have. People find this belief very important. They assume it will accomplish something.
Often, it is paired with a similar set of words:
Believe in yourself.
Once again, people find this significant and expect it to make a difference.
I've always found both sets of words somewhat annoying. The believe in yourself mantra is overrated. I could believe in myself all I want that I will become a famous scientist and cure HIV, but all the believing in the world can't accomplish that.
By the same token, I could believe that some acquaintances that I'll leave unnamed could become opera singers. But all the believing I can do won't make that happen.
I found both phrases not only annoying but also vain. As if my belief could make such a truly marked difference. It's not my belief that matters. Like I said, I can believe, and believe, but that doesn't mean anything.
Ideas without action are dead ideas. Ideas should inspire people to do something about the way the world is now. They should make them think of society in a different way, and force them to leave it better than they found it.
We see this in the early church. The disciples took the ideas of Christ and carried them out in life. They combined the idealism of the doctrines they believed with the pragmatic end of spreading and living them in their everyday lives. We see that those who believe in Christ will be doers, not simply hearers of his word, (James 1:22) but we also see how good works without the faith behind them are also dead (Galatians 3:11)
I suppose that's where my issue with both quotes arose from. Believing is of the world of ideas, but, we've seen that ideas cannot be independent of the action they inspire (if they can, they're not worth being thought up) Action is required in belief, belief in yourself or your belief in others.
Looking at those quotes in this light, I recently came by the realization that they are not without their value. Viewed through the lens of God's word, both can actually be quiet beneficial.
The Believe in Yourself one is simply a call to have faith in what can't be seen. It's a call to take a risk and step outside of what's familiar and comfortable. If you go out of your safe little haven with the idea that you will absolutely, beyond the shadow of a doubt, fail, you probably will. But if you are willing to believe there might be hope, that you could potentially make a difference, better things are yet to come. God doesn't really care how amazing you are. You are. He is. You are His workmanship. That makes you good enough. Be an optimist. Be realistic, but still believe that God can do mighty things through you.
The I Believe in You quote is my favorite. It encompasses my spiritual gift (showing mercy - which essentially means liking people even if I don't actually like them) perfectly. It's important to view people through the light of eternity. People don't usually believe me when I say it, but I don't see people as they are, but rather, as they could be, and in a very rosy light, too. People aren't just who they are now. They're not their limitations. People are souls traveling toward destinations, souls who are so much beyond what they truly are. I like the way C.S. Lewis puts it:
"It is a serious thing," says Lewis, "to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no 'ordinary' people. You have never talked to a mere mortal."
That radicalized my thinking about people. I am never talking to just a mere mortal. The most annoying, most ditzy, most conniving, most hurtful, most divisive, most unintelligent slobs I know could be the people I see as an angel of light. And my cutting words or vicious glances will be recounted one day.
That's why believing in someone is so significant. It makes all the difference in someone's life to know that someone had the faith to know there were better things for them out there.
It's impacted me. And my faith in others has made an impact, both on them and me.
Here's my challenge for you: View yourself and others in the light of eternity. You'll see change.
She sits with her back to the bitter wind
The quiet cries of the pale in her hand
The little bird’s trusting muffled song
From within the shifting of his wings
Makes silent rufflings in the shadows
In the bird’s hushed-gentle throat.
The girl looks down and clears her throat.
As her mother follows the wayward wind
Into the paths of darkness, painful shadows
With her destiny in the palm of her hand
And, soaring on a devil’s wings
Distorts the girl’s pure playful song.
The little girl wishes she could sing a song
Like the bird’s, but the dust pains her throat
Instead, she holds the bird’s steady wings
Keeping him from flying into the wind
Stubborn, she holds bird and mother in hand,
She will not let them cross the shadows.
For a moment, she heard the silent shadows
Speak, and their words were the words of a song
That treasure held in conniving hand
Is a knife pushed down magician’s throat
But treasure thrown to the wiles of the wind
Is treasure that will grow bold white wings.
And if the treasure has strong white wings
Then it will call out creatures of the shadows
Who praise the glory of the wind
Whose ears will hail no sudden song
That rises from a sainted throat
But hopeful whisperings of moon at hand
The girl raises her freckled hand
And, arbitrarily, bird tests his wings
A joyful song in the girl’s one throat
As her mother glides in hidden shadows
And both join in the bird’s free song
They see now beauty in the free wind.
The girl holds the shadows like clay in her hand
And the gifted wings fly like the song
In her brave throat and float above the forgetful wind.
I wrote this poem for a contest, but I didn't like it in context enough to submit it as my entry. I wrote a better one that will be my entry. This one is just a pretty thought. I hope you enjoy it. Echoes in ink, C.
After first hearing e.e. cummings when one of my writing students read 'i am so glad and very' aloud for our class, I have been determined to figure this man out and read more of him. I was entranced by this poem, and thought perhaps, you'd like it too.
my father moved through dooms of love
e.e. cummings
my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height
this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm
newly as from unburied which
floats the first who,his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots
and should some why completely weep
my father's fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.
Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead he called the moon
singing desire into begin
joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice
keen as midsummer's keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly(over utmost him
so hugely)stood my father's dream
his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn't creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.
Scorning the pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain
septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is
proudly and(by octobering flame
beckoned)as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark
his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he'd laugh and build a world with snow.
My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)
then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine,passion willed,
freedom a drug that's bought and sold
giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear,to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am
though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things
sweet,maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit,all bequeath
and nothing quite so least as truth—
i say though hate were why man breathe—
because my father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all
"How strange that the Lord should wait until the day before Sabbath for his curtain to tear!" Zechariah made a buzzing sound in his throat. Since the cough had taken hold, his humming had grown steadily weaker.
Judah reached up to take the curtain from the old priest. The temple had stood, solid, since the days of Zerubbabel, and the curtain, as a general rule, had been no exception. It had certainly been strange for the curtain to tear from top to bottom on the stormiest day Galilee had seen since Judah could remember, indeed, the day before the Sabbath.
"Why do you think the Lord chose last Friday for the curtain to tear?" Judah asked, a grin quirking the corners of his mouth. He handed the torn curtain to a Levite who stood nearby to attend to it.
Zechariah smiled more broadly, a laugh gurgling in his throat, his full brown beard twitching. "Who knows? The Lord works in mysterious ways, my boy."
Judah laughed too. Though he was supposed to be too old for playing, this was still his favorite game. Growing up in the temple had not been easy, but Judah had found hope and happiness in his favorite priest, a man who was like his father. They had played the game they played now every day for years, asking questions of each other about the God they both served. Why do you think God chose to use a boy to slay the giant, Zechariah?
He still remembered the answer to that one. Zechariah had replied that boys are weak, boys are clumsy and small, and God wanted his people to know that He had won the victory, not little David.
Judah looked up to Zechariah, still standing on the ladder, staring up at the blanket which was to temporarily replace the curtain. Judah thought if Zechariah tried, he could pierce the woolen blanket with his fierce glance and see the Lord's place.
But Zechariah would never blaspheme like that.
Reminded of their old game, Judah said, "Zechariah? Why do we have a curtain before the Holy of Holies?"
The priest heaved his bulk off the ladder and sat down on the floor next to Judah. "You know the answer, don't you?"
True, Judah knew the answer. God was too holy for the ordinary people. Only the High Priest was allowed behind the curtain.
"But why the High Priest only? Why couldn't the ordinary people go through some sort of ritual to pass behind the curtain and make their own offerings to the Lord?" Judah said. A thread brushed past him. He caught it in his hand and stared into its forgiving fibers.
"God ordained for it to be the High Priest. He has been necessarily purified."
Here came the second phase of the game - trying to see how much they could get the other to prove before he said, 'It's the Lord's mystery," which was always the end to their game.
"The Weeping Prophet says the heart is desperately wicked. All hearts. Not just the ordinary people and the sinners."
"The Lord also says he will create in us a pure heart."
Judah frowned at the thread. "Why would God make it so that the ordinary people can't know him?"
"He is holy, my son."
Judah looked up. "Does he not love us, Zechariah?"
Zechariah looked away for a long time, and for a moment, Judah thought their game had ended sadly. It was quiet, the only sound the wailing of a crowd of mourners outside the temple.
"Oh yes." Zechariah said, startling Judah out of the silence. "He loves us very much. Where does it say that, my son?"
"In the Torah."
"Yes."
"How could he love us if he is never with us?" Judah said, quietly.
Zechariah looked away again. "It's the Lord's mystery."
---
Judah sat outside, on the street. It was stiflingly warm, sticky, and his shirt was sticking to him, not at all pleasantly.
In the distance, the call of a peacock, mimicking the mourners who still stood outside.
Women. So many women in this crowd. They were moving past him now. Good. He couldn't stand the sound of their hopeless, ululating cries. They made his skin crawl.
It was so warm, so lulling and warm. He felt himself begin to relax into waxy half-slumber.
But someone was shouting, breaking him from his very comfortable dream.
"He is alive!"
A female voice, happy. He opened one eye, recognized her as a woman he had seen in the temple on occasion. An older lady, respectable, quiet.
It seemed to him that something was unfortunate about her, but he couldn't quite place it.
"He's alive!"
Who's alive, woman? and would you be quiet? I'm trying to rest.
He felt like saying it, but he didn't.
"Jesus is alive!" Something about that name stuck with him.
Oh. That was the unfortunate thing, wasn't it? Her name was Mary. She was the one with the maniac blasphemer prophet as her son.
Alive? He couldn't be alive. Wasn't he the one who had died, the day of the storm?
The day the curtain tore?
He had listened the man speak once. He had called himself the good shepherd. He was a carpenter, this Jesus, but he called himself a shepherd. What did that make Judah? A sheep?
The thought had struck him as funny when he first heard it. Now, it seemed vaguely familiar, and faintly disturbing. What was it the prophet Isaiah said?
We all...
we all like sheep...
We all like sheep have gone astray; each of us has turned to his own way, and the Lord has laid on Him the iniquity of us all.
Who is the He in this verse, Zechariah?
It's the Lord's mystery.
"The Good Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep."
Judah could hear that voice, that perfect voice, in his mind still.
But I don't understand. You are a carpenter, not a shepherd. And you're dead.
"Jesus is alive!" The woman's shouts mingled with the mourners.
We all like sheep.
Judah heard something, but couldn't seem to place it. We all like sheep have gone astray.
Maybe he was the good shepherd. He had laid his life down. And his mother seemed to think he had returned.
The Lord has laid on him the iniquities of us all.
More unidentifiable sound.
The iniquities of us all.
Judah remembered the lightning, the thunder around him, cowering, as the curtain tore. Unreasonably loud, that thunder. And the words, over and over, soundless and screaming, in his mind and above him like the thunder itself, It is finished.
And it was. The good shepherd had laid down his life for his sheep, he inexplicably understood. Because the Lord had laid on Him, that shepherd, the iniquities of us all.
The sound he could not hear shrieked in his ears.
He had killed the Lord of hosts. He had been the one the weeping prophet, Isaiah the prophet, and all the others had spoken of. It was his iniquities, it was his pain.
That was his criminal death that the Lord had paid.
Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord. I am afraid.
Why so afraid?
I love you. You know that, don't you? I love you. Where do you find that, little Judah?
The Torah.
That's right. And I have a question for your game now, little Judah. Why did I choose Friday for the curtain to tear?
It is the Lord's mystery.
No mystery is hidden with me, little Judah. How can I love you if I am never with you? I do not dwell in the Holy of Holies, behind a forbidding curtain. I am among you. You are my people. I am your God. I love you. I will always be with you. How can it be otherwise, dear little one? I dwelt with you as Christ the Savior. Now I dwell with you as your friend, your lover, your king, your Messiah. I am with you, to the very end of the age.
Who are you, Lord?
I am Jesus.
Judah could still hear the sound in his mind, and now Jesus' words showed him what it was. The curtain was torn in two. The path to God was open.
And God said, "Let there be light," and there was light. And God saw that the light was good. And God separated the light from the darkness. God called the light Day, and the darkness, he called Night.
It was now about the sixth hour and there was darkness over the whole land until the ninth hour, while the sun's light failed. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two.
For at one time you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light.
I, Jesus... am the root and the descendant of David, the bright morning star. The Spirit and the Bride say, "Come." And let the one who is thirsty come; let the one who desires take the water of life without price.
It is so dark out here, Father. It's so cold, and chill, and I am frightened. The stars even hide their light. I cannot break this blackness, this perfect, pure blackness.
Father, I am afraid.
Why is the night here? Is it not daytime? Why, Father?
These torrents of rain cover me. They are in my hair and my eyes, and the scream - the pained, pained scream - fills my ears and my heart. Who is crying out, Father? And why is he anguished?
Then the wailing begins. I cannot tell where it begins from. Perhaps the man in the center of the three? The wail is unbroken, unadulterated pain. The man arches his back, trying, trying so hard to...
To breathe, I think. Below him, the woman is wailing too. Their screams harmonize together in cacophony with the screaming. I think it is the wind.
I am afraid, Father.
Above the shout of rain and wind and tears, I can hear just one thing.
Small gasp. Small gasp.
The man in the center is making the noise. He tears his hands on the spires and raises himself up.
"Father! Into your hands I commit my spirit. It is finished."
It is.
The wind is louder. The rain pounds harder on my face, my outstretched hands.
I'm crying. And I don't know why.
It is finished.
That is why. It's done here. The suffering, finally over. The pain, finally done.
But his life is ended. Cut short.
The darkness plunges even blacker. And then I realize.
(This devotional was featured on Real Teen Faith earlier this week, but I thought I'd post it on Sparks of Illumination in case you didn't catch it on the other site. Hope you enjoy it! - C.)
Abram had a promise from God. He knew that the Lord would give him a son, despite his old age. He was familiar with the promises of God. He was only a few generations from the time of Noah and the flood, where God had showed just how fully he kept his promises to his people.
But Abram didn’t wait on the Lord. Though the child of promise was to come through his wife, Sarai, he chose instead to have a child through his concubine, Hagar.
Disaster ensued. Sarai banished Hagar and her son Ishmael to the desert twice, and once the child of promise, Isaac, was born, the clash only intensified. The nation descended from Isaac, the Jews, and the nation descended from Ishmael, the Arabs, are in conflict to this day.
What made Abram waver? Why did he settle for less than perfection, when he had the promise of goodness before him?
Abram had the same problem that people are still struggling with to this day. He was impatient for God’s blessing, and so he diminished the blessing coming to him by disobeying God and not waiting on His perfect timing.
A study was conducted among a group of preschoolers. Adults would put a child in a room with one cookie and tell the child that if they could wait a certain amount of time without eating the cookie, they could have two later. Then they went out of the room and watched the children. Almost every child ate the one cookie then, instead of waiting for the two.
They wanted immediate gratification. They wanted to have the good thing then, even though if they just waited a little longer, they would get more.
Everyone longs to feel God’s blessing in their lives. They cry out for him to relieve their suffering and bless them in a certain area of their life. This may be finance, time, housing, friends, school.
For me, this area was in specific activities. I wanted so badly to be involved in a program that my friends were involved in, I pushed God. I told him the area I wanted to be involved in was a good program, that it was a safe environment, that it was a place where I could further his kingdom. I said that I would enjoy it, be good at it, help people through it. Then I asked God why he wasn’t letting me be a part of it. If it was a good thing to do, and a good thing for me to do, it didn’t make sense to me why I shouldn’t do it.
God’s answer: Wait. You’re not ready yet.
So I waited. But not patiently. I still read up on everything that had to do even remotely with the program I wanted to be in, and begged God to let me join. The answer didn’t change.
Wait. You’re not ready yet.
Finally, I was reading my Bible and I felt God impress upon me that my life was His anyway. I was just clay in his hands, and he could do whatever he wanted with me. I didn’t need to worry about what God wanted for me, because he knew what was best for me, and that I should settle for nothing less.
I gave myself back to him. I told him that I was okay if he never had it in his plan for me to do all the things I’d always hoped I’d do. I told him I wanted to do what he wanted for me, whether or not I agreed with him at the time.
A week later, my mom approached me about joining the group I had wanted to all along.
I’m the first to admit it’s hard to wait. But if we wait on God and acknowledge that He, no matter what, is our best, we will be rewarded.
God has a plan for your life. And he ultimately rewards patience and surrender, if only we wait.
(P.S. Did you notice my new profile name? I changed from Sister Warrior to Echoes in Ink. Sister Warrior didn't really fit anymore, and Echoes in Ink fits both areas of my passion for communication, writing and speaking. Maybe I'll write a post on Echoes in Ink later. Maybe not. You never know. Sparks of illumination, C.)
All I can say is that I'd better marry a person who's at least a little bit more normal than I am or else my children will,
a) be complete freaks of nature
b) have to grow up with two very strange parents
or
c) all of the above
Then again, if I marry someone who's normal, then I might encounter some problems getting along with him... I wouldn't have anyone to talk to. Oh well. 'Tis a paradox I may as well just forget about, and simply pray for my children.
What prompted this interesting discussion, you ask?
Last night, my 4/yo brother was asking me to tell him a story (I told him one story to have him keep up while we were on a walk, and he hasn't stopped asking me for a story since.) when my mom announced:
Mom: No! Not tonight. Because she'll be doing an Interp for you tomorrow.
For all the non-speech-and-debate people, an Interpretation (Interp) is the best speech ever (if you're an Extemper, please don't kill me!)
Seriously though, for all the non-speech-and-debate people, an Interpretation (Interp) is a speech you perform dramatically.
Interps can be a lot of work. You have to cut a piece of literature into a script, memorize the script, block (add movement) to the script, characterize, and then work on other fun rule-related stuff. In short, this isn't something you want to write and memorize the night before.
And my mom has just sprung on me that I will, indeed, be writing and memorizing an as-of-yet-unknown piece of literature the night before.
My reaction: What?
Another note: My family is doing a homeschool co-op with some families who are considering the curriculum that my family used during my elementary education. They're studying ants right now. So my mom thought it would be "fun" for them to see an Interp of the Ant and the Grasshopper (Aesop) instead of just reading.
And, being the resident Interper with loads of time on my hands (snort... that's not even funny), I was elected to do it.
Did I mention I have a problem with Impromptu speaking? Just check out this post to be sure, but I seriously dislike it.
I just don't tell everyone that. And so, I'm being "strongly encouraged" to compete Impromptu next year and I taught a class on Impromptu speaking a week ago. Ha! If only they knew. But more and more I'm finding I probably don't have a problem.
In said class on Impromptu, I unexpectedly told an Impromptu story. In the above post, I was I competed Impromptu (not Apologetics, like I thought I'd be able to... correction, like I was TOLD I'd be able to...) I'm constantly giving speeches I've been given less than 4 days to prepare for (yeah, I went to an assisted living home with my speaking group that somebody cancelled for at the last minute, so I wrote a speech the night before and attempted to give it that day) I wrote my first-ever D.I. and performed it in three day... it's just sad how many times I've had to do this.
So, to make this post all the more random, after deciding I don't hate Impromptu that bad after all, I realized how spoiled my brothers are as it comes to reading.
My mom and my sisters and I have always read aloud to the younger family members. We've always used voices, and expression.
But now?
My brother now asks for stories like Winnie the Pooh, but expects a full-out presentation. The funny part is, he usually gets it. I've memorized so many children's books as Interps that I can usually just Interp my stories (and if I don't, we all do very dramatic voices and stuff like that).
So, I was thinking that and took it a step further. My children will probably grow up with that kind of dramatic reading/speaking. They'll come into their library storytimes as little three-year-olds and say, "Mommy, she doesn't read the stories fun like you do."
What am I getting myself into?
That and the fact that my children will probably have an overdose of the verbiage gene. So, maybe they won't say that. Maybe they'll say, "Mother dearest, she doesn't entertain us to the same degree as do you when you read aloud."
To conclude this reflective, dangerously unproductive post, I will say that, whether my poor children are freaks of nature, or I marry a somewhat normal person or a strange thing like me, I have great fun doing these speeches. So, I suppose I need to get over my Impromptu stigma and my "abnormal" stigma and just do the stupid interp. Right now. Before I forget the whole thing.
The Jocelberry Patch! This is my darling sister's new site, which she will devote mainly to her photography and artwork (I think... she may just decide to be spontaneous on me).
(I am braindead with a million bazillion assignments and guests, but I figured I was long overdue on a blog update. Here's a poem I recently wrote. It's kind of narrative, but it was a break from my relentless usual style).
With Jesus in Their Eyes
I'm the girl
With eyes so deep and hollow
You could drown in them.
My dark floss cloud a
Remembering ember
Of another life, another
Love.
I'm the boy
With sunshine hidden behind
Pale, gold-tipped glass
My brow like a ship's
Course across storm-laden
Green, furrowed
Like waves. Behind it
The longing, starving words
Who do not know
'Enough'.
I'm the girl
In the forbidding
Denim jumper
With hair like yellow tears
Or pretty leaves on crying willow
With innocent questions
And laughing ferocity.
I'm the boy
Everyone loves with
My teasing grin and two-faced
Eyes that love to
Make them dance
But hold some void
Some abyss and darkness
Of an unusual kind.
I'm the girl
Whose arms cradle
Such sweet cries
That earn me the shunning
The hiss, hush
That mars my existence
I'm the boy
So young, so true
And dead
My hands bleeding
My feet full of darkness
My head shining forth light
Crushed like a
Wilted brown leaf
Before the deepness of the
Night
Criminal
Sinister
You are the one
I died for
The one I bled for
The one I swallowed Darkness
forevermore for
I was crushed for you.
He is the one
With the immense brilliance
He's the one
Who shines through their
Eyes.
I'm the girl
I'm the boy
Who needs your
Love, with
Jesus in my eyes.
A story of life, love, desperation and mold of a rather unusual color by Kylie and I. (click the names below for links to the previous parts of the story) Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four
The wailing wouldn't stop.
It was Iyanna's wailing and she couldn't control it any more than she could control the destiny that had seized her and her unwilling family. It had been only a day since the violet mold had appeared in the outhouse. A day since disaster had come to be.
"Yan," a voice said softly by her ear. "It's time to wake up." A masculine voice. Hmmm. There was something significant about this voice, wasn't there? If her tired, frozen mind could only melt a little, maybe she could remember...
She swallowed and opened her eyes. A man knelt next to her bed. Two piercing grey eyes shone out of the still of the dawn room. She clamped her mouth shut to keep the scream from escaping.
Who was this man and how had he got into her room? She looked frantically around for Westin, but his bedclothes were rumpled, signaling the fact that he had indeed left.
"Calm down, little sister." The man said, releasing her from the burden of his silvery eye contact. "I promise, I'm here to help you."
"Who are you?" She said, her voice painfully level.
"I'm called Arioch." He extended a hand. She looked at it, unsure of what he meant.
He pulled his hand back again. "Oh, sorry about that. Custom I've grown familiar with. I assume you are Iyanna?"
She narrowed her eyes. How did he know so much about her? "Yes. How do you know that?"
He smiled. A brilliant, silvery smile to be sure. The light of the stars was captured in his shimmering smile. "Do you like to fly?"
Fly? This man, Arioch as he called himself, was a lunatic. "What kind of question is that?" she snapped at him.
"A perfectly valid one." He said, looking down at his long, pale fingers. "Well, do you?"
"Like to fly?"
"Mm-hmm."
"I've never flown before." Lunatic. Stark, raving mad.
"Oh. That's a shame." He smiled again, and she couldn't tell whether he was joking or serious. "Do you want to fly?"
"No." The answer came to her lips without her thinking about it. Her heart started to increase its beats in speed. The crazy man was making her nervous.
"Again, a shame. Do you like sunsets?"
"Yes." she said cautiously.
"Good! Now we're beginning to understand each other!" He slapped a hand onto her shoulder.
Understand each other? Iyanna's mind raced. Understand? Nothing could be further from the truth!
Arioch must have interpreted the look on her face accurately, because he said, "Don't worry, little sister. You will understand much later. Tell me, what do you know about stars?"
She glared at him from under her eyelids.
He just smiled his roguish grin back at her. "That's fine. I just want to get to know you a little more."
"Then maybe you could actually ask me something that mattered!"
"What do you suggest?"
Iyanna stopped. What was important? "You could ask me about the violet mold."
"So, why has the Creator bestowed this violet mold upon you, sweet Iyanna?" Arioch leaned back on his elbows, stretching his long frame.
"I don't know."
"Then why did you tell me to ask that?" Arioch quirked one side of his mouth up.
"Maybe you have... answers." Iyanna's tongue was running away with her mind. What was she thinking?
"Hmm." Arioch sat back up. "Answers. I have no answers. Never. But the Creator holds knowledge in the palm of his hand. Inquire of him. Who knows? He may choose to speak through his humble servant."
It took Iyanna a moment to realize he was referring to himself. "No." She chewed her lower lip, bitter. "If the Creator would deprive me of my life, my safety, my brother, he's not worth it all, is he?"
Arioch looked serious. "Your brother? What about your brother?"
"The mold was his, wasn't it?"
"You seem to think I know things that I don't know. But if this is really something that disturbs you, then I need you to do something ridiculous."
Everything you've said so far has been ridiculous.
"Hold very tightly to my hand, and don't let go." He said, extending his hand in her direction. "Promise me, whatever happens, you won't let go."
Iyanna slipped her hand into his, her concern for Westin outweighing all reason. "I won't... let go."
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Arioch was gone. She was gone. Nothing.
Nothing.
The light had faded into nothing. Nothing.
She tried to move, but found that her clenched hand still bound her to where she was.
The darkness glimmered into hazy brilliance. What a strange dream. The world was back. She must have hit her head on the low ceiling or something. A bird was singing.
"Yan?"
Iyanna would know that voice anywhere. "Westin!" She leaped from the ground, which she now recognized as moss, and ran toward him. His face was pale, but he looked happy. Happier than he had been in a long time.
She couldn't reach him. Her hand bound her in place.
Whatever happens, don't let go. Arioch's words echoed across the familiarity of it all. Promise me, whatever happens, don't let go.
Iyanna let go. The nightmarish darkness, nothingness was here.
She had forgotten, in the lovely morning and her brother's warm face, the terror of this. She screamed, but the scream was torn from her throat in a desperate force.
"Sweetie, wake up." The voice sounded like it was coming through a tunnel of wind.
"Katia! Bring her around!"
"She's having a seizure, sir! I can't do... anything." The voices were fading and growing, hitting grandiose notes of crescendo and decrescendo.
Then the roar overwhelmed them, and Iyanna was alone, away from Arioch, whose hand had fallen from hers.
And far, far away from sweet Westin.
So... did you see that coming? Check back on Kylie's site in the near future for Part VI.
(Imagine finding that headline in your local newspaper!)
Today was Co-op. It was really fun. I performed my Apologetics speech (good score - yay) and then went on to do Chemistry, where I was poisoned by my well-meaning teacher and nearly died.
Let me explain.
We're studying the Chemistry of Solutions. One of our experiments involved us dissolving a compound into water to demonstrate exothermic reactions (the kind that give off heat when performed).
We read the entire experiment carefully before beginning. We even wore the safety goggles like they recommend (they recommend we wear safety goggles when we're dealing with salt, so we usually look at their goggles suggestion somewhat critically).
But this time we even did that!
Conclusion of Chemistry experiment: Drano+water= bad news.
We were supposed to mix lye (like Drano) and water to observe the difference in temperature. Well, they didn't mention that when you mix lye and water, it produces a toxic fume.
We're a small homeschool Chemistry class. We have five students (only four were here today), so we usually do our experiments at the kitchen sink (which is where it's recommended!)
My mom also teaches a history class for kids approximately 4-11 years old. They're a pretty small class too, so they meet in the living room.
Our only guy Chemistry student noticed the problem with the gases first. As soon as we started the experiment, he started to itch, so he dashed outside. Within a minute, I started to feel like I couldn't breath. I started coughing, but I couldn't get a decent breath. I tried pulling up my shirt over my mouth, but it didn't work. I ran outside.
Within two minutes, the history class started coughing. My mom thought it was kind of weird how they all started coughing at the same time (they couldn't smell it) but when she started coughing too, she realized our grievous error.
I have never cleared a house before today!
So, my whole class is kind of off right now. Three of the four of us have headaches, all of us are slightly dizzy and everyone, including our teacher, is exhausted.
I'm still coughing.
A list (because I'm visual):
Today is the first time I've ever:
1. been poisoned.
2. poisoned a class full of kids, including my own sister.
3. been mad at my Chemistry curriculum
4. made a toxic gas by accident
5. cleared a house because of said toxic gas
Well, that's all for now. I've misspelled SO many words because my brain is totally shot. I'll finish Part V of Purple Mold and post that sometime in the near future, unless of course I die of Drano inhalation, in which case, Kylie can write something creative about purple mold in my obituary.
